


Plus One

by weepingnaiad



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And Clint needs some confidence, BFFs, First Date, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sometimes Phil needs a kick in the pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-29
Updated: 2012-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/pseuds/weepingnaiad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Summary:</b>  Just a fluffy little piece wherein Natasha’s the best BFF a guy could have.  She pushes Phil and dresses Clint.  Somewhere along the way, she figures out she’s gained a family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plus One

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** Thanks to abigail89. I couldn’t do any of this without her.  
>  **Disclaimer:** These are Marvel and Whedon’s characters used in the spirit of creative commons. I promise to return them with smiles on.

Natasha looked up from the knives she was polishing, her lips curving in a smile. Watching Clint spar with Thor was far more entertaining than any reality show. He was cheerfully getting his ass handed to him, but just kept coming back for more. The surprise on Thor’s face when Clint did manage to pop him a good one was infinitely rewarding. Natasha didn’t blame Thor for his brother’s antics any more than Clint did, but it still felt good to get one past a god.

Clint’s phone buzzed and Natasha picked it up without thinking. They had no secrets between them and Clint would drop everything for a certain someone’s call. This e-mail though? She blinked at the text for another moment before deleting it and wiping it from the phone’s records. One last glance at Clint’s smiling face when he evaded Thor’s throw and her decision was made.

Gathering her cleaning supplies and knives, she stalked out of the gym with barely a backward wave.

~~*~~

“Agent Romanoff, to what do I owe this visit?” Phil didn’t even look up from his computer. He’d known she was coming before she arrived and that irritated her even more.

She banged his office door closed, sitting down with her ankles crossed, palms on her thighs. Though her movements were casual, they were too precise. Phil jerked his head up, met her gaze.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“An e-mail, Coulson? You invited him to your sister’s wedding by e-mail?” Natasha was annoyed enough that she didn’t bother with niceties. “No. Just no,” she continued. “Either you man up and ask him _in person_ or you don’t fucking ask him at all.”

Phil sat back in his chair, his eyes wide, though he was still surprisingly composed. “I don’t see what business—”

“It’s my goddamned business because I have to work with both of you and I have had enough of this tension and hiding.” She huffed, a furious growl burbling up in her throat. “ _I’m_ the Russian! I’m supposed to be the repressed one!”

Phil frowned, his brow furrowing. “Natasha, I am Barton’s handler. There can be no—”

“Bullshit,” she interrupted. “I am well aware of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s outdated and oft ignored fraternization regs. I am also aware that you are merely hiding behind those same regs.”

“I am not—”

“No more excuses.” Natasha stood and leveled Coulson with a hard glare. “Ask him. You’ll be pleasantly surprised at the outcome.”

For the entire way back to the mansion, she took satisfaction in remembering the stunned expression on Phil’s face.

~~*~~

“Tasha!” Clint’s panicked cry greeted her as she opened the door to her room. She was planning a myriad ways to dispose of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent when Clint rushed up to her.

“Where have you been?”

“Out?”

“I needed you here!” Natasha bit her lip to keep from laughing at Clint’s disheveled state.

Clint was never fussy about his clothes or hair. But he generally wore more than boxer briefs when wandering around the mansion. “Why? Did Steve try to do laundry again?”

That stopped Clint and he glanced down at his bare chest and the rest. “Shit, Tasha. I—”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked as she steered him toward his room.

She was unable to keep from laughing when she glimpsed the chaos in Clint’s bedroom. There were clothes strewn everywhere, piled high on the bed, there was even a shoe on top of the television. “What happened? Did your closet explode?”

Clint dropped to the bed, resting his head in his hands. “Nat. Phil asked me out. _On a date._ ”

“A date?” she repeated as she settled down beside him. “So what’s the problem? You’ve been pining for _years._ ”

Clint looked up at her, his face uncertain. “I’ve never been on a date. What do I wear? How does this work?”

Natasha pulled back and looked at him with her face scrunched up. “Bullshit. You dated Bobbi. Then there was Wanda, and what were _we_ doing? Because I could have sworn--”

“Dammit, Nat. I’ve never dated a _guy._ How does it work?”

She chuckled and put her arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to whisper in his ear, “Seriously, Barton? You need a biology lesson right now?”

“Nat!” he cried out, jerking away and standing. “I got _that_ part down, dammit!”

Natasha held up her hands and shifted her face into a concerned moue. “Okay, okay. What’s the problem then?”

“What should I wear? Do I offer to pay? Do I wait for him to make the first move? What if he doesn’t like me without the bow?”

“Whoa. Stop. Let’s start with the easy part. Let’s get you dressed.”

“Right. Yes,” he muttered, then looked up her. “Help?”

Her heart nearly broke at his hang-dog expression. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To dinner.” He tried to sound casual, but she heard the bite of his nerves.

“Where?” She asked, standing to begin picking through Clint’s scattered clothes.

“The Fountains,” he answered looking up at her.

“Pretty high brow.” Natasha whistled. “I didn’t know you liked big band jazz.”

Clint shrugged. “I like all music. I kind of love jazz and classic rock.”

“Fine.” Natasha pulled out charcoal gray slacks, a black button down and purple tie. She handed Clint the clothes and gave him an encouraging smile. “There’ll be dancing,” she said, then added, “with touching and steps and…” She trailed off when she saw his horrified expression.

Pushing away thoughts of murder, she tugged the shirt out of Clint’s grasp. He was going to get it wrinkled with the way his hands were tightening. “Clint, get dressed. Then we’ll talk. But you have _nothing_ to worry about.”

She, meanwhile, stepped out into the hall to threaten a certain someone. Phil didn’t pick up, so she left a voicemail. Then she leaned against the wall and contemplated her life. This was so far from her training and experience she wondered when she stepped through the looking glass. It was foreign and odd, but somehow she’d acquired a family. Shaking her head at the paths her thoughts trod, she gave Clint a little more time before returning.

Once dressed, Clint was no less nervous. He was on the balcony, unmoving and silent, staring out at the city, his brooding, thinking-too-damn-much pose. She dragged him back into the room and into his bathroom, knotted his tie, and used gel to spike up his hair. Clint was quiet and pliant, never a good sign.

“Okay, Barton,” she said, dragging him to his sitting area and pushing him down to the couch. “Spill.”

He looked up at her with such naked emotion, her heart broke all over again. “Why now? What changed, Tasha? I’m not goo—”

She didn’t let him finish. “Clinton Francis Barton, if you finish that sentence, I will drop your ass and Phil will have to scrape you off the floor.” She took a deep breath, let it out slowly and took his bow hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “We almost lost you because of the Puppetmaster. Maybe Phil figured out that it was past time for him to say something?”

Clint looked hopeful and worried, but he was calmer. _Small steps._

“Is Phil picking you up?”

“No,” Clint replied a little too quickly. “I couldn’t… not here. Stark.”

“Point. Okay, so you’re meeting there. Want me to go with you? Just to keep an eye out?”

“Nat, I do not need a chaperone. And this isn’t an op. I can do this.” He sounded a bit like he was trying to convince himself. “Seriously. Thanks, but no thanks. And no surveillance. This is Phil we’re talking about. He’d _know._ ”

“Fine. You better get a move on. Traffic this time of night is murder.” She gave him a quick hug before pulling back and assessing him one last time. “You look hot, Barton. Phil’s a lucky man.”

The smile that blazed on his face was still insecure, but it was warm and hopeful, excited. It made her grin and roll her eyes as he walked out. If she convinced JARVIS to help her tap into _The Fountains_ security cameras neither of them were telling.

~~*~~

While waiting up for Clint, she dozed off during a _’Through the Wormhole’_ marathon to be woken by a gentle shake.

“Nat,” Clint whispered. “Nat. Wake up. I can’t believe you waited up.”

She opened her eyes to the first rays of dawn streaming through the large windows and Clint leaning over her on the sofa. Someone had spread a blanket over her and wasn’t _that_ a surprise. Huh. She’d think about what that meant later. But right now, she was looking up at a thoroughly disheveled Clint grinning at her. This was no walk of shame. He was ridiculously happy. About damned time.

She shrugged at him and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “So?” she urged, patting the sofa next to her.

Clint hopped over the back, settling in beside her, his eyes bright. She was glad she’d asked.

“He asked me to be his ‘plus one’ for his sister’s wedding,” he said, his voice nearly shaking with restrained wonder. “Tasha. He wants me to meet _his family._ ”

“And?” She really was getting a kick out of this side of Clint.

“Me? Carnie sideshow freak meeting average American family?” There was a hint of that insecurity, the old fears burning in his eyes again.

“He knows you. He knows his family.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “He wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t think that it’ll be just fine. They’ll love you.” She kissed his temple, whispering, “Now I want details, Barton. Spill. How’s Phil in the sack?”

“Natasha!” he cried out, laughing, but the way he was fidgeting on the cushions and the flush suffusing his cheeks answered her for him.

This was good. Perfect. She let Clint find out for himself just how well he fit into Phil’s ‘average American family’.


End file.
